Freeze My Thoughts with Fire
by TheHalfBloodConsultingHunter
Summary: Sherlock is going mad. It's been weeks since his last case and his head will not shut up. Restless and stir crazy, he has no idea how to stop it all. But John does. Sort of established relationship, but it doesn't really come right out and say it. Decide for yourself (:


**I have gotten so many favorite/follow notifications these past few days and you have no idea how happy they make me so as a present to all of you, I wrote this little drabble. I saw a picture a few months ago on tumblr that sort of inspired this and finally wrote it (link is in my description if you would like to see it) **

**So this one is for you guys. Thanks for all of the love it truly makes me happy to see that so many people like my writing. Hope you like this one (: **

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**Freeze My Thoughts with Fire **

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It had been several insanely long weeks since Sherlock's last case. He couldn't even remember exactly how long it had been, really but it was safe to say he was going a bit mad. His brain was working at about a thousand miles an hour. He was restless. He couldn't sit still. There were too many things to think about to be able to stay still. To concentrate on one thing at a time. To think properly.

More often than not, his fingers twitched toward the spot John had hid his cigarettes (really, his nightstand was so obvious- had he even been trying?) but he was able to control the temptation. Barely. He'd been almost two months without smoking, and didn't want to break that streak now... He knew John was proud, though he had yet to say it aloud.

But his mind... his mind was a tornado of thoughts and facts. Deductions. Every single second he was noticing something new. Deducing it down to the last, tiniest detail. He'd upset Mrs. Hudson earlier this morning, and Molly three times since last Monday. He couldn't help it. The words had spilled from his lips before he could even think of stopping them. Not that he would have, anyway.

If he had believed in God, he would be thanking him for blessing him with such a person as John right now. John was patient with him. Though he didn't understand it completely, he knew enough to know little things that calmed Sherlock... Even if it was only for a few moments.

After the second week, John called into the surgery and told Sarah that he'd need to take a bit of vacation. He didn't want to leave Sherlock alone for any longer than he had to, afraid of what might happen with him feeling the way he was. Occasionally, his mind slipped back into his first conversation with Sally. "He gets off on it." she had said, "One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there." John didn't believe for one second that Sherlock would ever go as far as murder to relieve his boredom, but that didn't mean he wouldn't do anything stupid either and the poor wall couldn't take anymore damage than it already had.

Hiding his gun had made John feel a bit better, but Sherlock wasn't called a genius for nothing. If he so wished, he'd be able to find it again in mere minutes. That is, if he could focus long enough to do so.

Mostly, John just sat around and wrote while Sherlock moved around. Sitting on the couch. Climbing over the coffee table. Calling Lestrade. Going into the kitchen and opening all the cabinets before slamming them all. Shouting at his skull. Shouting at John. Shouting at himself. Shouting at Lestrade. Running up and down the stairs. Pulling his fingers through his hair. Groaning. Sighing. Shouting some more.

He even tried sleeping a few times. He would lay in bed for a few moments, tossing and turning, trying to shut off his brain before getting annoyed once more and standing to go play the violin. Even those moments didn't last any longer than an hour. When he was playing, the tunes constantly changed. One song flowing into another. And another. And another. Before finally, the violin got discarded on the nearest surface and Sherlock continued moving around. Doing something.

John slept on and off. Little cat naps here and there. Never any longer than a few hours, because Sherlock would wake him, reminding him of his boredom. John would smile slightly and suggest something. A walk, another game of Cluedo, anything to busy Sherlock- if only for a little while.

At around three am on Thursday of his third week without a case, Sherlock was laying curled around a pillow on the couch, tapping his fingers against the pillow and humming to himself. John could tell he was trying hard to calm down. Make sense of his thoughts. He closed his laptop, feeling his eyelids getting a bit heavy, and stood.

He was planning on going into the bedroom to catch a bit of sleep before Sherlock became even more restless again, but at the last second he went to Sherlock. Wordlessly, he held out his hand to the stir crazy detective who looked at in for a few moments before taking it and following John into the bedroom.

They lay staring at each other for a while, Sherlock trying to stay still so that John could sleep. He was grateful for John. So, so grateful that he put up with his restlessness. Staying awake and away from work just to keep an eye on him. John's eyes closed and his breathing slowed. Sherlock smiled slightly and was able to stay next to him for exactly twenty four minutes and fifty three seconds before his mind started to get crowded again.

He sat up, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed, he cradled his head in his hands, rocking back and forth slightly. Stop. Stop. Stop! He wanted to scream. He was pulling at his hair, squeezing his eyes tightly, trying to will all his thoughts away. Trying to push them somewhere, anywhere but where they were now. He wanted to lock them up and throw away the key, but he couldn't. He couldn't do it and it was driving him nuts. Stop. Stop. Please stop. Just go away. He chanted it over and over again, hoping that it would work, knowing the attempt was futile. His head was aching. A spot right between his eyes making it even harder to stay still.

He was consumed in his thoughts, his mind swallowing him whole. Words. Phrases. Songs. Names. Locations. People. Old cases. Potential cases. Unsolved cases. Facts. Lies. Facial expressions. Definitions. Everything that had ever gone through his mind was coming back, fighting each other for dominance while he slowly lost his sanity.

He felt a hand touch his shoulder. Soft. Caring. Gentle. Tentative.

His thoughts stopped for a split second and he sat straight up. John.

John was safe. John was good. John was everything he would never be and everything he didn't deserve. John was there. John was his.

Then the red light turned green and his thoughts started up again immediately, giving Sherlock no time to prepare for the war to begin again. His head was pounding like bombs exploding and his thoughts were the soldiers, fighting to win a losing battle. And then John was kneeling in front of Sherlock and looking into his eyes, cupping his face in his hands. And Sherlock didn't even have time to figure out what was happening. He blinked and John's lips were upon his soft and gentle and caring just like his hand had been.

And Sherlock reacted instinctively. He moved his lips against John's, finding a rhythm that felt comfortable. One that felt right. And a fire started boiling within his veins. And everything stopped. His thoughts went silent, as though John's lips had strangled them. He had to pull away for a second to gain the breath he'd lost.

As soon as he had, he attached their lips together again. His blood was still boiling, feeling like lava inside his veins and his chest was expanding even though his lungs felt like they were shrinking and he kept losing his breath and his hands were moving upon their own accord but his thoughts were gone. Frozen inside his mind and finally, finally silent and all he could feel was John. All he could think about was John. All he knew was John. John's lips on his. John's hands in his hair. John's chest pressed into his. John, who was safe. John who was still here. John who was his only friend. John who cared. John who was his. In every possible way.

They parted once more, breathless and panting slightly. Foreheads pressed together and eyes looking up through eyelashes. "Better?" John asked, still trying to catch his breath, his hands finding solstice on Sherlock's knees.

"Hmm, much." The detective smiled in return, the livid thoughts within starting up again as the fire within him began to calm. But that was okay. Because John was here. Right here all the time. John was his antidote and that... That was okay too.


End file.
